If They Speak
by Thistle of Liberty
Summary: Rossi doesn't think Hotch should be alone after Haley's funeral, so he calls an old friend to come over. Very OC-heavy. One-shot.


**A/N: This fic is written for Thn0715** **who pretty much gave me the entire plot. I hope this lives up to your expectations. :)**

**This is also written as taking place in the same universe as the rest of my CM stories with OCs from those. For the most part it's one of those OC's POVs. Now, the rest of my CM stories contain spanking of adults which obviously isn't everyone's thing so I wouldn't recommend reading those if it isn't your thing. This fic, however, is free of spanking and any references to it. But you might not want to read it anyway since you won't know the OCs.  
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_Sorrow you can hold, however desolating, if nobody speaks to you. If they speak, you break down. _

_Bede Jarrett, Dominican monk_

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Sometimes Jo wondered if the fates had it out for her and her family. How else could she explain that her husband, who was normally annoyingly healthy in spite of doing nothing to be that way, had landed himself in bed with a severe bout of pneumonia at the very same time as Haley's funeral? In itself, this wouldn't really have been so bad; they would have let Rossi take care of Hotch and come down themselves as soon as Alex was feeling better. But as fate would have it, the world apparently couldn't do without Hotch's team for even a day and Rossi had been forced to leave Hotch. And since there was no way the Italian man would leave Hotch alone after such an emotional event, he'd called Jo.

"Jo?" he'd said, his voice clearly strained as he rushed to get the words out, "Look, we've caught a case. I know Alex is sick, but could you please come down anyway? I don't want Aaron to be alone right now."

Jo hadn't even hesitated; Alex could take care of himself for a while if the alternative was leaving Hotch alone. Alex, of course, hadn't protested, he'd even wanted to come along, but since he was still overcome with violent coughing spasms that left him short of breath and worryingly pale whenever he did anymore taxing than moving from the bed to the couch, Jo had vetoed that idea. Instead, she was now alone in her car heading for Quantico at what might be a bit over the legal speed.

Traffic laws were after all, as her husband liked to inform her, far more beneficially considered guidelines rather than rules.

Even so it took her most of the day to get to Hotch's place; the sky already darkening as she pulled up outside his apartment building. She had packed only an overnight bag, figuring speed was the most important thing right now, and she grabbed it and her phone before locking the car and heading out. Rossi had said that she didn't need to call to let Hotch know she was coming, since he'd already informed the younger man, but she felt that it was only fair to give Hotch at least a few minutes' warning.

"Hotchner," he replied formally and curtly after a few rings.

"Aaron," Jo said simply, "I'm right outside your apartment complex. Can you give me your code?"

"Uh… yeah, sure. Three, five, eight, two. The apartment's on the third floor."

_The_ apartment, not _my_ apartment, Jo noted. Maybe insignificant, but still interesting. If she was a profiler she might have been able to say exactly what it meant, if anything at all. She punched in the code and hurried up the stairs. In a way she knew that a few minutes would make no difference after a whole day, but now that she was so close to Hotch she couldn't help but wish she was already there.

As she finished the last stair, Hotch was already standing in the doorway, smiling weakly. He looked awful, to be honest. Bags under his slightly red rimmed eyes, the lines in his face deeper than usual and his attempt at a smile not at all hiding the tenseness of his jaw.

"Aaron," she said as soon as she caught sight of him, closing the distance between them with a few steps and enveloping the man in a tight hug. Hotch broke it after only a few moments, though, taking a step back and trying to get a smile on his face again.

"Jo. I'm grateful you're here, but it's really not necessary. Shouldn't you be with Alex?"

Jo smiled and shook her head. "He can handle a few days without having someone to whine to."

She wasn't really sure levity was the right way to go, but she decided that it was better than what she really wanted to say. That Hotch needed her and she wouldn't stay away for anything in the world. And that whereas she trusted Alex to stay in bed until he got better, she didn't at all trust Hotch to take care of himself.

"Dave said he was coughing blood," Hotch pointed out, raising his eyebrows in question. Jo shrugged, making a mental note to yell at Rossi about worrying Hotch.

"Violent coughing led to small lacerations in the throat. Nothing more serious than when your lips get too dry."

Hotch didn't look convinced, but accepted her words with a hint of a shrug anyway and stepped aside to let her enter. Still keeping a hand on his shoulder, Jo did.

"How's Jack?" she asked and immediately Hotch's face lost whatever hint of cheer it'd had before.

"He's okay, I guess. Considering the circumstances, I mean."

"And how are you?"

The only reply she got to that was a lousy attempt at a smile before Hotch turned and headed into the apartment.

"I was thinking you could sleep in Jack's room," he said and Jo nodded, giving him what she hoped was an encouraging smile as she walked past him into the room. Hotch remained in the doorway as she deposited her bag on the bed; looking down at his hands as he absently rubbed at his fingers.

Before Jo had time to speak they were interrupted by Jack, whose face showed obvious signs of crying. The little boy hesitated behind his father's legs for a moment before he ran over to Jo and jumped into her waiting arms, pressing his face against his shoulder.

"Aunt Jo," he said, tears obvious in his voice.

"Honey, I'm so sorry," Jo said, pressing a kiss to the boy's temple. There really was little else to say, so for a while she just held Jack close and rubbed his back comfortingly. When she felt the boy relaxing into her arms, she pulled him away a bit so she could look at him as she spoke.

"What do you say about some dinner?"

Jack nodded and Jo gently put him down on the floor again, waiting until he had grasped his father's hand tightly before she ushered the two out of the room and toward the kitchen. Unlike Jack's face, where grief was obvious, Hotch had, as soon as his son entered the room, schooled his expression into what could almost pass for normality.

"You guys take a seat and I'll see what I can manage," she said, moving over to examine the contents of Hotch's fridge. It wasn't exactly well-stocked, and after a moment's consideration she settled on just boiling some pasta and tomato sauce. She'd get onto nutrition tomorrow.

"Alex is very sorry he couldn't come," Jo continued after a while, mostly directing the comment at Jack, "But he's sick and needs to rest."

"Is he very sick?" Jack asked, sounding concerned.

"Well, yes. But it's nothing dangerous and he'll be perfectly fine in a week or so."

Jack nodded and for the ten minutes it took Jo to finish their meal, nothing more was said. Hotch was studying his son as surreptitiously as he could and Jack was just staring at the table, his young face set in a deep frown.

"Here you go," she said finally, relieved to have a way to break the silence, as she put the pasta down on the table, followed by the sauce, "Eat up, gentlemen."

Her instructions unfortunately weren't followed very well. Even though Hotch kept encouraging Jack to eat, and managed to get the boy to eat almost a full meal, he only picked at his own food and didn't even seem to notice Jo's concerned gaze on him, being too intent on making sure his son ate.

When he was finished, Jack spoke up. "I want to watch mommy's DVD."

Hotch looked hesitant, glancing at the clock on the wall, but after a moment he relented. "All right, buddy. But not for too long."

They both headed for the living room, after Jo waved away Hotch's offer to help her clean up, and for a while she heard their soft voices from the next room as she rinsed the plates and put away the leftovers. Both Hotch and Jack seemed to be functioning, which was good. Better than she had expected, really. But Jack was young; too young to completely understand and as for Hotch… Well, Jo just hoped that his apparent cool wasn't a sign of refusing to let himself feel.

Just as she was putting the last plate in the dishwasher, Hotch entered the kitchen again.

"Are you sure Alex is fine?" he asked, a small frown on his face. Jo raised her eyebrows at him.

"Sweetie, I'm a doctor and it's my husband we're talking about. Do you really think I'd leave him alone if there was any reason to worry?"

With a hint of a smile, Hotch inclined his head in concession. "I suppose not. I just… well, pneumonia sounds pretty bad."

"He'll be okay," she assured him, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, "You didn't eat all that much."

"I'm not very hungry," Hotch replied quickly and without emotion. He suddenly seemed very uneasy; glancing behind him at Jack and awkwardly twisting his hands, "Do you mind? I need to watch Jack."

His tone was brusque, almost rude, and with eyebrows raised in surprise Jo watched him go. Under normal circumstances she might have disliked the tone, but as it was she couldn't bring herself to feel anything even remotely close to angry at him.

So she just followed the man into the living room, watching as he took a seat on the armrest of the sofa; watching his son more than he watched the TV.

"I'll go call Alex, all right?" she said after a moment. Hotch nodded distractedly, not really hearing the words from the looks of it, but she left anyway. She needed to call Alex; let him know she had arrived safely and give an update about Hotch's state of mind. And, probably, spend at least a few minutes re-convincing him he should not leave Maine and come to her aid. Then she would also need to call Rossi, to reassure the man that she was quite capable of taking care of Hotch without him there.

Alex picked up on the first ring. "How is he?"

"I don't know," Jo sighed, taking a seat on the bed, "Bad, I guess."

"Bad?" her husband echoed, a hint of annoyance in his tone. Jo sighed again, then started to clarify.

"Jack is sad and confused, but I don't think he completely understands. He's only five, after all. And Aaron… I don't know, Alex. I'm not sure he's dealing with this _at all._"

There was a short pause as Alex considered her words. "Should I come down?"

"No. You're still too sick. You know that."

"I guess," Alex replied with a sigh, "Give him my love."

"I will. I love you."

"I love you too. Call again tomorrow."

They hung up, Jo pleasantly surprised at how easily Alex had accepted the fact that he was still too sick to leave home, and vaguely suspicious about it. But she decided that he probably just didn't want to detract her attention from Hotch. Next up was Rossi.

"Jo? Is he okay?"

She wasn't entirely sure if she shouldn't be a little offended that neither her husband nor one of her very best friends even bothered to greet her before inquiring about Hotch. Probably not though, because she would have done exactly the same herself.

"I think so," she replied, "No worse than expected."

"And how bad is that?"

"Bad enough. But he'll be okay, Dave."

For a while there was silence on the other end. Knowing her friend it was probably Rossi pondering her words, trying to decide whether he believed her reassurance or not.

"I suppose he will," the man said finally, with a sigh that belied his words, "But Jo… please take care of him, okay?"

"Of course."

They hung up, nothing more to say after that. Normally Rossi would have made an attempt at being polite and asking how _she _was doing and so on even if he had no interest in knowing, but again she felt that the circumstances excused him.

When she returned to the living room Hotch had moved to sit next to his now crying son, his arms wrapped around the small boy. He attempted a smile when he saw her enter, but it ended up being more of a grimace. Completely a grimace, to be honest. She gave a small gentle shake of the head, hopefully serving as a reminder that Hotch didn't need to pretend he was all right around her, before she retreated to the kitchen.

It took almost fifteen minutes, most of which Jo spent fretting in the kitchen, but Jack finally calmed down from the onset of intense grief. Or worry maybe; Jo wasn't sure he actually understood enough to be grieving. Hotch got up, his son in his arms, and moved toward the bedroom. The little boy was already more than half asleep when Hotch gently laid him down on the bed and tucked the covers around him, so Jo didn't feel like she was intruding when she watched the two from the doorway.

"G'night, Daddy," Jack mumbled, his voice half unintelligible.

"Good night, buddy," Hotch replied and it seemed that was all Jack needed to descend completely into deep sleep.

Jo had expected Hotch to turn around and face her then, but instead the man remained seated on the edge of the bed, his face turned away from Jo. And even though she wasn't a profiler, Jo could clearly read the tension in his body, the way his shoulders were hunched as if he was expecting someone to attack. And most of all she noticed the almost frantic way he rubbed his hands together; his fingers writhing together in a way that had to be painful.

"Aaron," she spoke softly, not wanting to wake Jack and not wanting to startle the obviously distant Hotch, "He's asleep now. Come with me and have a cup of tea, all right?"

Hotch didn't acknowledge her words; the only sign that he heard them was a moment's ceasing of his hands' wringing. Keeping her movements quiet, Jo walked over to him and put a hand on his hair, running a hand through it, hopefully soothingly.

"Sweetie, Jack is asleep. I know you want to comfort him, but I need to talk to you, okay?"

This time Hotch turned to face her, a deep frown etched on his tired face. He inclined his head toward the sleeping form of his son. "He might wake up."

Jo nodded, stroking a stray lock of hair from Hotch's forehead. "He might. And then you'll be there in five seconds instead of one. We need to talk, Aaron."

The note of sternness in her last words seemed to register with Hotch and with a small sigh and a final glance at Jack he rose and followed Jo out of the room. She steered them toward the living room, gesturing for Hotch to take a seat on the couch before she did so herself.

"How are you, Aaron?" she asked, earnestly, "And be honest, please."

Hotch made a small sound that might have been an attempt at a laugh, not looking up from his intense scrutiny of his hands. For a while he was silent and when he finally spoke his voice was quiet and uncertain, more like a lost little boy than an FBI agent.

"What would you do if… if Alex died?"

The question probably shouldn't have come as a surprise, but Jo was still struck silent. For a moment, she considered.

"I don't know. Not really. I'd be… devastated, of course. I've loved him for so long and he's been part of me for so long, so… Well, I don't know. I would learn to live without him, I suppose. I would… go on. And I would let myself take comfort in the rest of my family."

The last words were pointed, a clear message to the younger man. An invitation to open up and a gentle reprimand for closing himself off like this. But Hotch chose not to take the hint, and right now he was too vulnerable for Jo to push, so she just watched as he made some flimsy excuse and more or less escaped into his bedroom.

The next day she kept watching. Hotch was composed and looked almost fine around his son. He hardly ever smiled, and when he did it was a grimace, and the tension never left his body. Everything about him was perfectly controlled, his choice of words, his intonation, his posture, except the continued wringing of his hands that Jo had noticed yesterday.

And that was when Jack was there, or Jo to a lesser extent; when Hotch was alone his façade crackled and he visibly sagged. Sometimes his eyes filled with tears and he looked as if they would brim over and he would start crying, but he always managed to pull himself together again and with a few deep breaths continue as before.

Jo wanted desperately to push him, to force him into stopping the ridiculous charade of being fine, but she knew that Hotch probably wouldn't respond well to that. Rossi was the only one who seemed to manage that, and even he didn't succeed all the time. So instead she waited.

It took until the evening of her third day before Hotch seemed ready to talk to her. Or more accurately, unable not to talk to her. Hotch had just put Jack to bed, after spending the better part of an hour soothing the crying boy, and when Jo stepped out of the bathroom and into the living room to talk to him, he was sitting slumped on the couch. His elbows were resting on his knees with his head hung low. She couldn't see his face, but she could see his hands; still twisting, wringing.

She quickly closed the distance between them and took a seat next to him, gently taking one of his hands in her to stop the tortured gesture and running her other hand through his hair soothingly. For a while Hotch remained tense, and Jo was just beginning to reconsider her decision that this was a good time to talk when Hotch spoke.

"I… I can't get the blood off my hands."

His voice was quiet and hoarse, barely audible and Jo immediately felt her heart break for him.

"Oh, honey," she said and pulled him into a tight embrace, ignoring the fact that he stiffened slightly.

She knew what he meant. What she didn't know was how to reassure him. If it had only been the guilt about killing Foyet that was haunting him, she could probably have dealt with it. If nothing else, then by telling him that the bastard had gotten off easy compared to what would have happened if Dave and Alex would have found him alive. But Jo knew, from the completely and utterly devastated tone in Hotch's voice, that that wasn't all he meant. Her boy was blaming himself for Haley's death.

It wasn't surprising, not really. Hotch had an unending tendency to blame himself for everything possible and quite a lot of the _im_possible as well. And despite how much Jo thought the relationship hadn't really been as good for Hotch as a marriage should be, she had to admit that Hotch's love for Haley was strong, as was hers for him. And love always strengthened Hotch's resolve to blame himself.

"It wasn't your fault," she said, moving her hand to run it through his hair in a soothing motion, "Nothing about this whole thing was. You did all you could to prevent it, even when it hurt you. It wasn't your fault."

Hotch, to Jo's relief, leant in deeper into the embrace, letting his forehead rest against her shoulder.

"It was," he insisted quietly, but there was little of the steely determination that Jo usually associated with him in his voice, "It _was_, and now Jack- and I can't- and I just… She's _gone_!"

And with that Hotch crumbled, all his composure slipping away and his breathing collapsing into desperate sobs. Jo knew instinctively, and from her knowledge of Hotch, that he hadn't properly cried for his wife until now. At least not since the desperate scene immediately after Foyet's death that Dave had described to her.

"Oh, honey…" Jo repeated, tightening her embrace, "It's going to be okay. I've got you and I promise everything's going to be all right. Shh… I've got you."

The man kept sobbing, desperately grabbing at her shirt and burrowing his face deeper into her shoulder. Jo wanted to tighten the hug even more, but she knew that her hold was already almost tight enough to hurt, so instead she moved one arm higher, cradling Hotch's head against her, and the other lower so that he was as completely enveloped in her arms as possible.

Jo felt his hot tears soaking through her shirt, the shaking of his body and for one of the few times in her life she felt a strong desire to hurt people rather than heal them. Hotch was hers to protect, damn it, and that he was hurting this much distressed on a deeper level than almost anything.

"Shh…" she kept mumbling, "It's going to be all right, honey. Everything's going to be all right."

It took a long time before Hotch's crying faded off into quiet sniffles and then just deep, still hitched breathing. His desperate clutch on her loosened slightly and the tension in his body slowly died away.

Rationally, she should now have Hotch wash his face, drink a large glass of water and eat something, but the need to keep him close won out so she just gently eased him down so he was lying, his head on her lap. He was already too drowsy to protest, probably even to register what was happening properly, and only made some small sounds that might have included his son's name before yawned deeply.

"Sleep now, Aaron," she said – not that he looked as if he needed any encouragement – and dried away the tears remaining on his face with her thumb. She kept her hand on his hair, stroking it in slow, soothing motions, even after his breathing had evened out and he was, without doubt, deeply asleep.

Then she let her own tears fall.

She _hated_ this whole thing. She had grieved for Haley – was still grieving – of course, but she hadn't really known the other woman very well. There were other things that bothered her much more. She hated how weary Dave looked from it, she hated that any mention of Foyet brought the predatory look to her husband's eyes that she had always hated. She hated that Hotch's team was affected. But most of all she hated that Hotch was hurt and that Jack was hurt.

* * *

**Aaron is asleep. Come but be quiet and use your own key.**

That was the reply Rossi got to the text he'd quickly sent to Jo as soon as he got off the plane asking how Hotch was and if it was all right that he came over. For a moment he debated sending a text back, but if he knew Jo her phone wouldn't be on silent. She wasn't quite as inept at modern technology as her husband, but she was worse than Rossi and that was saying something.

He said good bye to the rest of the team quickly as soon as they touched the airstrip, pretending he didn't notice that they noticed how strained he was. He broke most of the speed limits driving to Hotch's apartment and ran at least one red light. Traffic laws mattered very little next to Hotch.

He reached the apartment building quickly and hurried up the stairs, deciding that that would be faster than the elevator. Remembering Jo's words he didn't knock; just used his own key and entered as quietly as possible. He paused for a moment, but then headed directly for the living room.

The sight that met him brought a soft smile to his face, even if he half wanted to cry as well. Hotch was curled up on his side, with his head resting on Jo's laps and a content expression on his face despite the tear tracks on his cheeks and the swollenness of his eyes. One of Jo's hands rested on his shoulder, the other on his head, now and again stroking his hair gently as if she suddenly remembered that she meant to comfort him. That was what made him smile; what made him reconsider the smile was the fact that Jo's face was as streaked by tears as Hotch's.

"Jo" he said quietly. She looked up at him, a gentle, melancholy smile playing on her lips.

"Dave."

"How… is he okay?"

Jo nodded. "More or less, I suppose. He's still grieving, Dave."

"I know," Rossi said, making a small grimace, and then paused for a while, "You should wake him up. He'll get a crick in the neck from sleeping like that."

He thought about adding that Jo wouldn't get any sleep at all like this, but decided not to since it probably would make no difference to the weight of his argument. After a moment's consideration, Jo nodded and shifted so she could lift Hotch's head. The man woke immediately; really, it was more of a surprise that he hadn't woken up before. He blinked, disoriented, then frowned and sat up straight, not quite hiding his small grimace as he caught sight of Rossi.

"Dave," he greeted, his voice still slightly hollow from crying, "Case is over?"

Rossi nodded. "Yeah. Caught the UnSub, everything's fine."

He wasn't sure how to continue; he mostly wanted to pull Hotch into a tight hug and not let go for a long time, but he doubted the younger man would appreciate that right now. So instead he settled for being practical.

"You should go to bed. It's late."

Hotch stretched his arms above his head, then rolled his shoulder before he replied. "Jack's asleep. I'd wake him up."

"And if he wakes up in the middle of the night and you're not there? Besides, where else are you gonna sleep?"

If he weren't so tired and newly-awakened Hotch would probably have argued more, Rossi thought, but as it was the younger man merely gave a tired nod and hoisted himself to his feet.

"Are you going to sleep here?" he asked Rossi, who shrugged.

"That was the plan, yeah."

"You'll have to take the couch."

"Sure," Rossi agreed, then hesitated; waiting for Hotch to make the next move. He wanted to comfort the younger man, but… well, Hotch wasn't as comfortable taking comfort as Rossi thought he should be. It might very well be that crying in front of Jo – well, in her arms, really – was as much vulnerability as he could take in one day.

"I'm going to bed," Hotch did indeed announce curtly after a few moments, pushing a hand through his rather disheveled hair before he left the room without saying anything more.

Rossi gazed after him for a while, before he turned to Jo, raising his eyebrows in silent question. She shrugged.

"You need to talk to him," she said, "I don't need to tell you this case was rather bad timing."

"I know," Rossi said, grimacing. It had been, but they'd had to go and having the team short two members when it wasn't strictly necessary was a no go. So Rossi had left, and although having Jo with Hotch was better than nothing, he would much have preferred it if he could have comforted Hotch himself. "Tomorrow."

They were silent for a while, before Rossi spoke again, gesturing vaguely to face and the obvious signs of tears. "How are you?"

Jo sighed. "Well… all right, I suppose. I hate seeing him hurt."

"Yeah, I know. But… well, he'll be all right."

With a soft smile, Jo nodded before she stood, stretching. "I hope so. Anyway, I'm calling Alex and then I'm going to bed. You're taking the couch?"

"Yeah. Good night."

She gave him a nod before she left, already pulling out her phone. Rossi sighed, then shrugged off his jacket and sat down on the sofa. Hotch was going to be okay. There was no reason to think otherwise. He'd come through almost being killed by a psycho and having his wife and son snatched away from him. There was no reason he wouldn't get through having his wife snatched away from him permanently by the same psycho.

Rossi grimaced before he even finished the thought. The worst thing about all of this was probably that Hotch shouldn't _need_ to get through this. He shouldn't need to deal with a serial killer fixated on making him miserable. It was the very epitome of unfair and though Rossi was world weary enough to know that the world tended to be unfair, this was just too much.

Hotch shouldn't have to deal with all this.

He sighed again.

Because Hotch did have to deal with this, and wishing he didn't would get them nowhere. He'd simply have to be there for his friend, the man he'd come to view as a son, and secretly plot how to resurrect Foyet so he could give him a more painful death and… well, hope that Hotch would be all right.

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**A/N2: Please review. :)**


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